The Watch
by yerrr87
Summary: The first show had been nerve-wracking. Lee Jordan comes up with the idea for Potterwatch.


AN: HP not mine. Canon spells from the Harry Potter Wiki. S/o Google translate for the rest.

To pull off each broadcast, really pull it off, required a tight circle of witches and wizards, only those they could trust. There were extensive spells that had to be cast, a battery of protective enchantments and concealment charms. They ran through Lee's mind in his sleep, his lips silently forming the litany of Latin phrases like prayers.

_Fianto duri._

Everywhere he went, Harry Potter's face gazed down at him, branded with a lightning scar and the title of Undesirable No. 1. Lee had never thought of himself particularly brave, just charismatic and mouthy, but sitting on his hands wasn't making him feel any better about the darkening world around him, nor was the constant vilification of his former Housemate. The Daily Prophet had become a propaganda arm, and letters were frequently intercepted, indiscriminately ripped from the legs of owls. His former refuge, the WWN, provided little information, none of which was useful. There had to be another way to get word out, some way for him to contribute to the cause.

The seed of an idea was taking root, slowly starting to occupy more space in his mind. He thought of a winter weekend years ago, a dank pub in Hogsmeade, and Harry's exhausted face as he rallied his troops. His friends' names on a piece of enchanted parchment that would be their downfall.

No loopholes this time, he thought.

_Locus signare._

They were in the basement of Wheezes, secreted behind the false wall that had been erected in the workshop, walls lined with fireworks that looked like missiles and hats that acted as shields. Lee looked at his friends, faces dark save for the light from a floating candle. He noticed how George was sitting sideways, inclining the left side of his head towards their conversation. How Fred was running his hand through his hair compulsively, eyes darting from speaker to speaker. Eventually, they agreed to make the introduction. It was a good idea.

_Cave inimicum._

Making the case to the Order of the Phoenix was more difficult, convincing them of his aptitude and the logistics that needed to be attended to: a different location each broadcast, volunteers to offer updates. They agreed that a show of support was needed, that an underground source of information would be integral to the resistance efforts. Professor McGonagall looked at him over her square glasses and vouched for his nerve. Heartened, he promised to return with a plan and made his way home to set the next steps in motion. Pulling out a quill, he started to write.

_Ange_, he scribbled. _How's things in Suffolk? Any chance I could come visit? _Mr. Johnson ran a successful import business, but shipments had slowed in recent months. Here was an opportunity for a trusted partnership, Lee's only chance to get on the air.

_Cecidim totalum._

Before he had a chance to knock on the wide wooden door, it was pulled open from under his raised fist, Angelina staring at him from the darkened interior. As she ushered him into the foyer, he noticed she had traded her braids for a long, silky ponytail; as he shook hands with her father, he noticed she had traded her bravado for a quiet intensity. She sat in the corner of the study, chewing on her finger as they discussed equipment, unused routes. They looked as though they could be father and daughter and son, like Lee could blend into the Johnson family and no one would blink an eye.

She walked him out of the house, towards the perimeter of the safety wards, the promise of a shipment headed Lee's way. As they approached the gate, Angelina reached for his hand. Before he Disapparated, they locked eyes. He observed that, 10 years on, he was finally taller.

_Repello inimicum._

The first show had been nerve-wracking. Each errant sound and unidentifiable noise had Lee's hair on end, although he knew that Kingsley Shacklebolt's spellwork was unimpeachable. Slowly, they fell into a groove, somberly recounting the deaths of wizard and Muggle alike, offering defensive tactics and promising more when they could.

When they were finished, Lee stared at the dead radio that had been placed before him. The others got up, began to gather their things, murmuring quietly to each other. Lee felt a sudden pressure, looked over to see Shacklebolt's large hand enveloping his shoulder. The man smiled down at him and patted his arm before making his leave.

It got easier over time. Never easy, but easier.

_Protego horribilus._

He held off on telling his parents about the show, and when he did, the concern on Lee's mother's face was enough to make his eyes well, although not enough to make him back away from his duties. He convinced them of the overwhelming need for a voice for the resistance, his willingness to become a target. He gave them the password for the next broadcast.

After, his father stood behind him, gripping his shoulders, and his mother placed one of her cool, dry hands on his forehead. It was their approval, their protection, an acceptance of the dark road ahead.

_Muffliato._

Once, after they had finished recording and everyone else had left her flat, he and Alicia had gotten resoundingly, crashingly drunk, and ended up in bed together. In flashes, he recalled the pressure of his fingers on her hips, the scent of her long, thick hair as he buried his face in her shoulder. He woke the next morning to a hangover and an empty room, a handwritten note waiting for him on the bedside table.

_Shh_, she'd written, and drawn a smiling face.

_Pignum maxima._

He discovered he was good at keeping secrets. At school, he'd been a known gossip, a fount of knowledge on who had been caught in unused classrooms, who was abusing their Prefect duties, the inner workings of rival Quidditch teams. Now, he traded in secrets, kept his eyes low and ear to the ground. Anything that could be of use, he stored away.

After they had come for Fred and George, he doubled down on his own security. Each knock was cause for suspicion, and while there was never an immediate threat, he ran through a list of questions that only his closest could answer. When they appeared on his doorstep, soaking wet and wearing dark cloaks, it took a minute for the shock to subside. Then George pulled out a bottle of Firewhiskey, pilfered from their great aunt's bar, and it was almost like they were back in the dormitory.

As Lee welcomed the twins in, he spotted Fred tracing the doorframe with his wand, casting a shimmering glow that the wood absorbed. When had he gotten so careful? When had any of them?

_Protego totalum._

He lowered his wand, satisfied with his spell-casting. Turning back to the low wooden table, he cleared his throat and glanced at the assembled. They nodded at him, eyes on the wireless radio that had been placed in the middle of the table.

"_Sonorus_," he said, tapping his wand to his throat. Hestia Jones pressed the record button. "Hello, good evening," Lee began. "Welcome to another edition of Potterwatch."

"_Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death… I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post... I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men…" _— George R. R. Martin, 'A Game of Thrones'


End file.
